What Could Go Wrong?
by meatkat
Summary: Based on the pre-shooting flashback in "What Doesn't Kill You"/3x01. And sweet baby Jesus in a motherfreaking manger, did that scene just write itself. I can write more, if reviews tell me to.


**Based on the pre-shooting flashback in "What Doesn't Kill You"/3x01. And sweet baby Jesus in a motherfreaking manger, did that scene just write itself. **

**(Disclaimer: I own nothing so Tamaro, Gerritsen and the rest of the gang can keep their panties on.)**

* * *

"This is my first undercover assignment," Maura couldn't help but grin at the detective. Or, more accurately, the top of the detective's head. Her warm hazel eyes eventually met two darker, richer pools of brown.

Jane fumbled with the clip-on microphone, disarmed momentarily by the medical examiner's apparent eagerness. Her mind brought her back to almost a year ago, when they both "eagerly" pulled off a U.C. at Merch. _Oh, yeah, because me pretending to be a lesbian _totally_ counts as undercover work. _She recalled never having felt so comfortable basking in the attention of the women-_and potential murderers, _she mentally slapped herself-who came to see her.

Anyway, she figured her job necessitated a careful inventory of the relatively new surroundings, which included an in-depth observation of the (non)apparel of a woman pressed up against the bar. Her eyes registered a pair of shapely calves encased in sheer black stockings. A skirt which barely hid the matching garters holding up the said stockings. Emphasized enticingly creamy white thighs which just begged to be caressed. Thighs which she wouldn't mind have wrapped around her. A click of dark heels told Jane the woman was about to turn around and face her. "Hey, th-" she began, but the Rack of God rendered her temporarily mute. As did the face attached to the body her mind lovingly began to undress. Her knees buckled. She wished she had some beer to dignify the choking sound that came from her throat when she realized who it was.

_Why does she always have to be such a freaking eager beaver_? Jane grit her teeth. _Fuck, snap out of __it, Rizzoli!_

"What are you thinking about? The variations inherent in your contracting zygomaticus major are causing visible indentations to your epidermis," observed Maura, anticipating the arch in Jane's slender brow. "Why are you smiling?" she added, unable to stop the contraction of her own zygomaticus major.

Jane's eye twitched. "Oh. Uh ... nothing." _Real smooth, Jane. Just like what the consistency of a deer's brain must feel like when they get hit by a four wheel drive._

What she didn't anticipate was an actual deer-caught-in-headlights moment: there was no way to hide the wire unless she-_sweet, Jesus_-slipped it under Maura's blouse. _Easy does it, Rizzoli, just act all casual and shit, like you stick your hand up women's tops all the time_. She tugged gently at the hem of Maura's blouse, glanced up quickly as calloused fingers caught on the soft material. Then her knuckles brushed against something even softer, warmer. Jane's neck snapped up so fast she thought she heard a slight crack.

"I'm doing a U.C.," mimicked Maura, who remained oblivious to Jane's maneuvers. She squared her shoulders and threw in the swagger her thigh-high boots warranted. "I feel like Donnie Brasco," she laughed, searching the detective's face expectantly for a grin. Maura was beginning to understand the significance of cultural references, especially when getting them right involved an oddly satisfying flash of Jane's pearly whites.

"You sure as hell don't look like him," she snorted in response. "Alright, we're gonna tuck this wire right... here." She chewed the corner of her lip as she watched her fingers fail to respond to her brain's commands, knowing Maura was watching her in turn. The good doctor would probably have an explanation for... incongruent brain-motor function in relation to unresolved sexual frustration... _or something like that, _Jane frowned.

"This microphone doesn't make me look like I have three breasts, does it?" Maura inquired as it was clipped into place. _Thanks for making this so much easier for me, _thought Jane. "Well, y'know, some guys are into that." _I personally wouldn't mind just the two I'm becoming painfully aware of._

"Is this what you'd wear to an undercover operation?" Maura wondered. "I-I feel a little dressy," she added, as Jane lifted her top up ever so slightly. To adjust the wire... _right? _Her breath hitched as cool air flowed over her exposed stomach. Hazel eyes met dark brown ones.

"I'd wear a flak jacket," replied Jane bluntly.

"I know this sounds vain," continued Maura. "But I could never be a cop." Jane laughed. "You? Vain?" She tried to concentrate on positioning the wire along Maura's back. A thin black line against pale, unblemished skin. She did a double-take at the slit in Maura's skirt. A warm flush began to creep up her neck.

"Even you look a little chunky in a flak jacket," she huffed.

"Wow, really? Okay. Well, thank you _very _much." Jane sniped, "And you know what? I think your little medical examiner get-ups make you look like a trash collector." _That's right, Rizzoli, you big fat liar-tell her how much you hate watching her walk away from you in those high heels and vicuna wool skirts that magically shrink just enough to really show off that tight ass._

Maura's eyes widened. _Fuck, she can read minds now! _Jane braced herself for a science-laden comeback. "You do? So do I! I always feel a little dumpy," squirmed Maura as the wire tickled against her skin.

Jane paired a soft chuckle with a lopsided grin. "Put your jacket on," she ordered. "You wanna know what's truly odd about you?"

Maura replied, "I'm not sure." She flicked her gloriously long locks out of the blazer with pale hands that shook ever so slightly as the detective surveyed her handiwork.

"You are the dumbest genius I know," said Jane, not without a hint of affection. And maybe a little regret at the her friend's current state of clothing. Yep, she definitely liked barely-dressed-Maura better.

"'I'm not sure' means pause," sighed Maura. "It means do not blurt your subconscious thoughts."

"Oh, right. Sorry," came Jane's apologetic reply. Suddenly confident hands reached up to readjust Maura's hair. Instinctively, she knew that the smell of it would linger on her fingers and, for days afterward, taunt her mind. She focused on patting the immaculate blazer flat before she realized Maura had asked her something. Something about aggression and back-up. It was completely lost on her the moment Maura playfully moved her hips. Snapped her fingers. Pointed at Jane. Gave another devilish grin. Focused those goddamn beautiful hazel eyes on her.

Jane froze. _I swear they've gotta be a registered weapon_. She took a deep breath. "Yes," she ventured. Hoping her attentiveness to everything but Maura's words wouldn't get her into too much trouble.

Korsak intervened. "We should get in there." _Huh. I completely forgot he and Frankie existed. _Maura jumped and pointed affirmatively at the sergeant. _God, could the woman be more adorable?_

"Listen to me," regretting instantly as Maura withdrew the hand that was slowly making its way towards Jane's hip. She compensated by placing both of hers firmly on her friend's shoulders. Her eyes darkened significantly. "This is serious."

"Yep," quipped Oddly Monosyllabic Maura.

"Somebody's trying to kill you to stop you from investigating a murder..." Maura nodded as the detective spoke. She stared as Jane's lips moved and formed shapes which she knew resembled words. Words which she determined were probably important to her mission. But how could she concentrate when the voice to which she was already so susceptible just dropped an octave? She resisted the urge to place a finger delicately against Jane's larynx, knowing exactly how her clit would react to the vibrations it made. "... but we're gonna be there this time," her detective assured.

Maura smiled gently, gripping Jane's own shoulders. "I'm ready."

"We say, 'don't get made," she murmured.

"I like that," although Maura was unsure of what she was referring to: undercover cop colloquialisms, or the way Jane had started stroking her shoulder with her thumb. "Don't get made," repeated Maura, mesmerized by the sensation, thinking it might be a little late for that now.

"And don't look so worried," her hands rested on the detective's biceps. Well-defined. Warm. She tried not to lick her lips.

"What could go wrong?"


End file.
